Finished

A fellow blogger posted about an interesting situation in which he was invited to a colleague's home for dinner. The colleague's ex-spouse worked in the same place as the two of them, but the colleague's current spouse was unaware of this. Inasmuch as the two guys know each other only from work, it was made clear that the topic could not be broached. I thought about writing a comment on the blog, but at the risk of offending other blog readers, I decided to post it here, instead:

Explain to Mrs. Friend that, in your culture, it is forbidden for men to speak of their work to women whose husbands have lower stations in life than one's own. Then, following the ensuing angry outbursts, change the topic, in rapid-fire fashion, to politically-motivated euthanasia, followed by religious cannibalism, and then question the two of them about whether they favor the death penalty for Martha Stewart's financial infractions.

This is utter nonsense, of course, but for some reason I find it funny. My mind has returned to my early teen years, I suppose. It was the night in Shreveport, no doubt, that did it. That, and my bizarre curiosity about the type of ethnic food that would be served.

Just as I was about to go to bed last night in my bug-infested room, a loud knock at the door startled me. I asked who was there and the response came back something like this: "My boss told me to see you...he said Mike or something...are you Mike? Anyway, he said you might have...he said to come see if you could...remember talking to him? I think he said Mike. Remember him? He said I should come over here..." I interrupted, saying, "you've got the wrong room. I'm not Mike, I don't know Mike, I haven't talked to anyone." "Wrong room?" he said, then mumbled something I couldn't make out and walked away. I'm thinking drugs had something to do with that scene.

That incident made for a fitful sleep. I was half-expecting this dimwit and his boss to come banging on the door at any minute, insisting that I'd had a conversation and could, indeed, provide something they wanted. That didn't happen, fortunately. But I woke up several times during wha remained of the night, my consciousness aroused by a slamming car door, a diesel engine's growl in the parking lot, and who knows what other noises that crept in and left little fears in my brain. When the alarm went off at 4:25 am, I was in no mood to get up, but I did.

At 5:00 am, I dutifully launched a Skype conference call with a group of folks, only five this time, who bumbled and mumbled their way through unmade decisions and unmet deadlines. By the time the call ended at 6:05, I was ready to get up, so I took a shower, brushed my teeth, ignored my beard, threw on some clothes, and bolted. I stopped by the front office to collect my receipt and leave their antiquated electronic room key, then jumped in the car and charged off in a westerly direction. It was still pitch-black outside, but limited traffic and good reflective signage helped ensure that I was able to stay on the road and keep on track toward home in Dallas.

The 175 mile trip was uneventful. When I got back to town, I ran by a do-it-yourself car wash and blasted the worst of the heavy road crud and bug goo from the windshield, the hood, and the front-end. The car needs washing, but it will last until the weekend now, without me having to worry that the bug goo will harden into a permanent lacquer.

So, my journey from Fort Lauderdale to Dallas in a 1995 Mercedes E-320 cabriolet came to an end. I'd like to do it again, but in 10 days next time, instead of two.